I, Mand'alor: Truth
by BunBun Fett
Summary: A smuggler uncovers a Sith plot that is far too personal to avoid; a retired Republic trooper is recruited for a suicide mission; a Mandalorian mother rebels. Fate brings the three together in an unlikely allegiance against the galaxy's spiraling decay.
1. The Devil's Paintbrush Road1

**Dedication: **_To the **Buurenaar Cabur'e**. You know who you are._

**Setting:**_ The **Republic Dark Age**, during the **New Sith Wars** (circa 1,090 BBY). _

* * *

"_Live and die and gone / Live and die and gone / Leave the dream of hearth and home / Live and die and gone"_

"**The Devil's Paintbrush Road"**

**The Wailin' Jennys**

* * *

"We shouldn't be here."

What was quite possibly the most ridiculous-looking creature in the galaxy leaned against his Mirialan companion's shoulder and muttered mutinously out of the side of his whiskered mouth. Furtive blue eyes darted back and forth, before finally settling into a thousand-yard stare at the ceiling.

"I'm fully aware of that," the Mirialan tipped his head back, downed a shot of dark amber liquid, and continued to exude an air of complete indifference.

"There's a Sullustan sitting behind us who hasn't stopped eying us since we sat down," the gray-furred, long-eared sentient continued to mutter as he fidgeted with his own shot.

"He's probably never seen a Lepi before," the spacer shrugged and set his glass back down on the cheap duraplast bartop.

"Exactly," the Lepi's whiskers flattened disapprovingly against his cheeks and a little tuft of fur began to prickle between his ears. "I'm kinda' a big ole' walkin' 'collect bounty here' sign."

"You're the one who insisted on coming with me. I _could_ have taken D'Larian."

"Yeah. 'Cuz a Miralukan is _so_ inconspicuous," the immediate retort dripped with sarcasm. "And like I'd trust the two o' ya' in a place like Nar Shaddaa alone. Neither one o' ya' can hit the broad side o' a cruiser!"

"D's not too bad," the Mirialan shifted uncomfortably in his seat; this was an old argument and one he knew he couldn't ever really win.

"Maybe not. But _you_ are," the Lepi grumbled; the scruffy creature finally tossed his own shot back.

He shook his long ears and made a face. His companion chuckled softly and raised his glass to silently order another drink.

"I don't know why you insist on drinking alcohol, if you don't like it," the spacer shook his head.

"I stand out enough as it is. Would be mighty funny if I sat down in a cantina and ordered blue milk Plus," the Lepi tugged thoughtfully on his whiskers as he considered his empty shot glass. "I keep hoping I'll find somethin' I like..."

"I think you might want to give it up," the Mirialan's lips quirked upward in a wry smile. "With all of the cantinas we frequent, you'd have found something by now."

The pair fell silent and let the raucousness of the underworld cantina wash them into the background. They were surrounded by some of the roughest sentients that Nar Shaddaa had to offer; to the left of the Mirialan slouched a snarling Devaronian with facial scars and a missing horn; to the right of the Lepi leaned a half-dressed Zeltron prostitute who had seen better days. Their bartender was a ghostly Umbaran and behind them, a Nikta swoop bike gang shouted at each other over an escalatingly dangerous game of pazaak. It was, however, a scene with which the two spacers were more than familiar with; indeed, the whole of the galaxy wasn't much better, even on planets like Alderaan or Coruscant.

The galaxy was in decline, thrown into chaos by a seemingly endless succession of millennia-long wars. Peace and lawfulness were no where to be found, but most especially not on the Sith-controlled planets where to two most often wandered. Nar Shaddaa was the worst of the planets they had visited, but where they'd already been had prepared them for it.

The Lepi continued to eyeball the ceiling; to anyone who didn't know about a space-rabbit's near 360-degree range of vision, he appeared to be staring off into a simple-minded oblivion. His companion, however, knew better; after nearly six years of traveling together, the Mirialan spacer could tell when his first-mate was watching their backs.

"Are we still the center of attention?" the Mirialan muttered out of the side of his mouth as he pushed an empty glass toward the bar-tender.

"Yep," the Lepi focused, for just a moment, on his friend. "He just pulled out a comlink, too."

"Huh. Guess that's our cute to go."

The decision was mutual. Both parties put credits down on the bar to settle their tab; if they noticed the prostitute and the Devaronian count their money, neither spacer showed it. The Mirialan moved first; his slide off of the barstool was slow and a little unsteady. As he got his feet underneath him, he realized with an inward grimace, that it wasn't entirely an act, either.

_Maybe I shouldn't have had three straight shots of _tihaar_ on an empty stomach..._

There was little time to undo the damage that he had done, in any event. As he weaved his way through the tiny, dimly-lit, grungy hole-in-the-wall-cantina, the Mirialan mused that at least his heady buzz helped his appearance of total inebriation look that much more convincing. A slight grumble from behind him, though, warned him that his companion was presently doubting his ability to run if the situation called for it.

Thankfully, it was easy for the experienced to slip into the anonymous ebb and flow of Nar Shaddaa's Red Light Sector. It was easier, almost, to hide a Wookie in plain sight than a Lepi, but not-withstanding the Mirialan's odd choice of traveling companions, the two were able to mingle into the midday throng without attracting too much attention. The space captain walked in front, his blue eyes roving right to left and the Lepi followed behind, his own eyes mostly directed to a spot somewhere above his friend's head, as he checked for trouble following behind them.

"I _really_ think we should head back to the 'port, Kar," now that they were out in the open, the Lepi tried to focus his companion's attention with the use of his name.

"We've been tracking that damn slaver down for nearly five years, Al'dur," Kar abruptly changed direction and started down a narrow alleyway. "I'm not giving up when we're so frakkin' close to catchin' him."

"We've been here nearly 72 hours and his trail dead-ended in this sector. I'm startin' to think we're chasin' a ghost," Al'dur grumbled as he loped along behind the Mirialan.

"Either that, or the Hutt knew more than he was lettin' on," Kar made another abrupt turn and Al'dur huffed into his whiskers as the alleyway grew darker and narrower. "I'm starting to think he threw us a redfish to get us off the scent."

"Well, Nar Shaddaa's kinda' a big ole' planet an' it's got more back door by-ways than a Lepi warren," Al'dur grimaced when he accidentally stepped into a pile of refuse that had spilled out of a dank entryway into the alley in front of him.

The Lepi paused and took a few scant minutes to shake his boots in an effort to knock off the unidentifiable garbage that was slowly starting to clog his sensitive nose with a putrid odor. He gagged, slightly and shook his head as he pressed a paw up against the underside of his whiskers.

"Mind telling me why we're weaving down dark alleyways where death-by-ambush is all but certain?" Al'dur was, as ever, not hesitant to voice his personal opinion of Kar's more random choices.

"I Felt something come down this way," a window opened up above his head and Kar dodged just in time to narrowly miss a shower of questionable content.

"You would have made a fabulous Jedi," Al'dur rolled his eyes toward the durasteel "sky" above them; he paused just long enough to make sure that the path behind them was still clear of potential followers. "All cuddly mumbo-jumbo and not a lick of common sense."

"Ironic you should say that," Kar swiftly rounded yet another graffiti-covered corner. "My old masters used to think I'd make a fabulous Sith, too."

Al'dur knew when to let a topic drop – any conversation that could potentially involve Sith and any mention of Kar's years as a slave was unequivocally off-limits. The Lepi couldn't pretend, however, that he wasn't annoyed by the sudden turn of events; if left to his druthers, they would both have been heading back toward the relative safety of the Nar Shaddaa space port and their waiting ship. Kar, however, was a wild-card and had been ever since Al'dur had met the Mirialan; if the good captain had his head set on something, neither Sith nor Jedi could dissuade him from it.

This was also not the first time that Al'dur had been dragged down random alleyways in pursuit of one of Kar's nebulous "feelings". The Mirialan was a tribute to his naturally Force Sensitive race – in the fancy vernacular of the Jedi, the Force was strong with Kar. However, Kar's sensitivity to the Force was as fickle as his moods and just as stubborn – as natural as it was, the Mirialan couldn't control it. He could stand in front of a Hutt, listen to a bald-faced lie, and never recognize it, but a half-hour later, some strange compulsion could grab a hold of him and he'd be unable to shake it. It made Kar wild in almost any sense of the word and Al'dur often found himself wondering if it was that innate defiance that had kept the Mirialan from giving into a destiny that would have taken him much farther than that of a drifting, vengeance-driven smuggler.

Al'dur also often found himself wondering if even the Sith would have been able to fully control Kar. As the Lepi followed his daring captain deeper and deeper into the black heart of the Red Light Sector, he had to wonder if there was anything in the galaxy – creature, cause, or creed – that could ever lay claim to Kar's overpowering need to be the architect of his own fate.

Some would have called the smuggler selfish. Al'dur sighed through his large front teeth and followed Kar as faithfully as he could; the Lepi thought that maybe he knew what truly drove the Mirialan and his connection to the Force. It wasn't so much selfishness, as it was a burning need to hunt down the past that still forced him awake at night, screaming with terror into the still blackness of space.

"Are we at least getting -" Al'dur's question was cut off abruptly as Kar skidded to a stop and threw up his dusky-green fist in a wordless command for silence.

The Lepi's ears twitched; a youngling was crying.

"Why don't you go pick on someone your own size?" a voice cracked uncertainly – whether in fear or pubescence, Al'dur couldn't tell – but the tone was strong, defiant.

Kar's hand twitched toward the blaster he kept holstered at his thigh. Al'dur bit back a groan – where blasters and Kar intersected, there was only ever trouble. And, the drama usually ended up in a trip to the nearest med-droid; Kar was a little too fond of shooting himself in the foot.

"Steady a minute, Cap'ain," Al'dur reached out and grabbed his leader's shoulder firmly, before either one of them could make a further move around the alleyway corner. "Let me go first."

Al'dur was only marginally better with a blaster – in fact, D'Larian had enthusiastically labeled them both 'the worst blaster-slingers ever!" and of them all, the blind tech-mechanic had the most accurate aim. But, Al'dur had what neither Kar nor D'Larian had – he had a Lepi's instinctive speed and long legs. Where he might fail with a blaster, he could kill with one well-placed kick to the head.

Kar – who was well aware of his limitations – hesitated for only a moment, before nodding in acquiescence. Al'dur smoothly stepped in front of his shorter companion and sidled up to the corner, so he could take stock of the situation. He grimaced, briefly, as his back came in contact with the alleyway walls; they were slick with what he hoped desperately was just a bad case of mold.

If there were younglings backed up against the apparent dead-end, Al'dur couldn't see them around the massive expanse that stood in the way. Full body, dark-blue armor identified the stranger as a Mandalorian – Al'dur twitched his whiskers in irritation. Mandos were notoriously hard to kill and one the size of a small bantha would be next to impossible to take down.

"Just calm down," a tinny-sounding voice echoed from underneath the badly banged up helmet; Al'dur narrowed his eyes and considered the state of the Mandalorian's armor.

Most slavers took at least a passing, shallow interest in their own appearance. Not to mention, Mandalorians weren't known for trafficking in sentient bodies – at least, not publicly. In fact, since the death of their last Mand'alor, the infamous warrior clans had been rather scarce about the galaxy at large. It was unusual, now, to see a Mandalorian, even on Sith-controlled worlds. It was even more unusual to see a Mandalorian in such ill-used, unkempt armor. Al'dur felt his whiskers twitching in wordless curiosity.

He didn't need to be Force Sensitive to know that he needed to wait a minute before jumping in and making a potentially fatal mistake. He eyed the holstered blaster at the Mandalorian's hip – if this was an abduction, it was a curious one, indeed.

"I'm not a slaver, I promise," the Mandalorian lifted his hands away from his thighs and Al'dur was quick to see that he appeared to be completely unarmed. "You younglings look like you're in trouble, though. Who you runnin' from?"

"We're gonna' get off this stinkin' planet and you're not gonna' stop us!"

A tall, gangly form launched itself from the shadows in front of the Mandalorian. The sound of crying didn't stop, however, and Al'dur deducted that there must have been at least one more youngling hiding against the dead-end wall. There was a brief scuffle, but it took place mostly in front of the expansive Mandalorian and Al'dur couldn't really tell what was happening. A few moments later, a form fell limp to the ground and the Mandalorian cursed beneath his helmet. The crying also escalated alarmingly in volume.

"_Osik_!" the Mandalorian bent over and picked up the fallen form; a human youngling made an abrupt appearance, draped over the apparent mercenary's shoulder like a sack of mounder potato rice.

Kar's elbow dug deep into Al'dur's side and the Lepi figured it was probably time to intervene – if only to save himself further harm at the hands of his impatient captain.

"Stop right there!" the space-rabbit stepped boldly into the street, blocking the Mandalorian's only exit. "And put the youngling down!"

"I promise this isn't what it looks like," something _definitely_ didn't seem right to Al'dur – the Mandalorian didn't even reach for his blaster.

He simply lifted up the one hand that he wasn't using to steady the inert youngling on his shoulder, in a galactic sign of surrender. Kar stepped out from against the wall and took his place at Al'dur's side; the rabbit looked briefly out of the corner of his eye and gauged his captain's reaction. The Mirialan was furious, but it looked like he was keeping his reaction in check.

_For once_, Al'dur couldn't help thinking; Kar could be quite fickle in tense situations.

"Who are you and what are you doing with the..." Al'dur paused and tried to glance around the width of the Mandalorian, in an attempt to see who else lingered in the shadows at the end of the alleyway. "Younglings?"

"Name's Boz," was the instantaneous reply – if the Mandalorian had anything to hide, he was doing a great job of laying on the eager sincerity. "Saw this one," he shrugged his shoulder and the knocked-out youngling moved with the motion. "Fight some slavers and escape with...uh..."

Boz's explanation was cut short as a Nautolan youngling – significantly smaller and younger than the one on the Mandalorian's shoulder – launched himself at Boz's shins.

"Let him go!" the youngling hiccuped through tears as he pummeled the Mandalorian's unforgiving armor. "We don't wanna' go back!" some of the fight seemed to leave the little one and he abruptly plopped down on the ground and rubbed little fists into his puffy, iris-less eyes. "I don't wanna' be a slave!"

"No one's going to make you a slave, kid," Kar finally broke his silence and stepped resolutely away from the safety of Al'dur's side.

The Mirialan's face was stony, as he marched into Boz's prodigious shadow and crouched down in front of the second youngling. The smuggler paused just long enough to tilt his head back and glare defiantly into the Mandalorian's silver visor. Al'dur was almost certain that the Mandalorian would take his giant fist and send it crashing toward the top of Kar's closely shaven head, but Boz stayed as passive as ever.

Given the reputation of most Mandalorians, the Lepi found the mercenary's lack of attack rather puzzling. If Kar thought anything of it, he didn't indicate it – the younglings were clearly of more interest than a Mandalorian who seemed to be going out of his way to remain decidedly non-threatening.

"If you come with us, I promise to keep you safe from the slavers," Kar continued his patient dialogue with the little Nautolan, who was still sniffling behind his tiny hands.

"No!" the cerulean-skinned youngling lifted his head and looked, wide-eyed, at his companion, who was draped as still as ever over the broad length of Boz's shoulder. "You'll just take us back to them!" he started to cry even harder.

It was obvious – at least to Al'dur – that the youngling had been promised refuge before and had been cruelly duped because of his trust. Something ugly twisted in the Lepi's heart; thanks to Kar, he had been hunting down slavers, one in particular, for nearly five years. But, this was the first time he had seen the face of the galactic slave trade at such a personal, visceral level.

Kar didn't say anything, but Al'dur watched as his captain calmly reached up and pulled down the top of his high-necked tunic. What the youngling saw apparently surprised him so much, that for a moment or two, he stopped crying altogether.

"Do you know what this is?" Kar lifted his chin and glanced up toward the impassive Mandalorian who was still looming over him; the youngling hiccuped and nodded slowly.

"I-it's a s-slave collar," he wiped a grimy hand across his nose; Al'dur winced a bit as a smearing little streak followed the motion of the youngling's hand. "Y-you're a slave?" the question was asked with a considerable amount of uncertainty.

"I _was_," Kar dropped his hands and lowered his chin – his point had been made. "I hunt slavers. They won't have you. I promise."

The Nautolan sniffled, but was otherwise silent. Al'dur shifted uncertainly on his feet, but it was obvious that Kar wasn't going to rush the youngling's decision to come willingly. Boz, on the other hand, seemed to have other ideas; the Mandalorian finally made his move and his right hand moved so quickly toward his blaster that Al'dur almost didn't catch it.

Before anyone else could react, however, the hairs on the back of the Lepi's head bristled; five seconds later, the cold barrel of a blaster dug against his fur. Time suddenly ground to a halt and Al'dur silently cursed himself as he looked up.

He'd forgotten to keep an eye behind them.

"Thanks for tracking down our little escapees, _vod,_" a voice behind Al'dur crackled with the tell-tale sound of electronic enhancement. "Would have taken us forever to find them, otherwise."

Al'dur locked eyes with Kar, who had managed to turn around and stand up, before being forced to hold his hands against the back of his head in submission. The smuggler's blue eyes blazed furiously and the young Nautolan at his feet suddenly grabbed a hold of Kar's boots in a gesture of instinctual terror.

They had started off with _one_ Mandalorian.

They now had_ five._

And just when Al'dur thought that the situation couldn't get any worse, D'Larian's voice rang loud and clear through the Lepi's comlink ear piece, on the secure frequency that all three of them shared.

"_Hey, Captain! You might wanna' start heading back. I think port authority's figured out who we are..."_

* * *

**Author's Note:** _So those of you who may be following my **A Thousand Suns **__saga...here's a new one for you. This is completely original fiction__, which is definitely a new one for me in the realm of fan fiction as a whole. I was inspired to write this story, though, because of my own explorations into the Mandalorian culture and encouragement I've received for my portrayal of such in **A Thousand Suns**. This also a labor of love for some of the niftiest people in the world - you all know who you are. I hope I do your characters justice.  
_

_Don't have much to say about this one, since this is the first chapter and all. But, if you plan to read along, please plan to leave reviews, too! A writer's ego is quite delicate and reviews are a great way of knowing if I'm doing things right or not!  
_

_Also, if anyone is inspired to volunteer as a Beta, I won't say 'no'. I could use one, especially on an ambitious endeavor like this one. There's not much out there on the Republic Dark Age - which can be a blessing and a curse. o.O  
_

_Love it? Like it? Hate it? Lemme know...!  
_


	2. The Devil's Paintbrush Road2

"_Sweet wild road ahead / Sweet wild road ahead / If I lied and said that all was well / I might as well be dead."_

"**The Devil's Paintbrush Road"**

**The Wailin' Jennys**

* * *

"I _cannot_ believe the Mand'alor called us all together to suggest something so...so...!" a female Togorian in full fury, sputtered incoherently for a moment in complete indignation.

She paused half-way through the round gathering room and waved her paws in the air in front of her in sheer frustration. Golden eyes flashed as both whiskers and fur stood rigid in a non-verbal display of righteous indignation.

"So mercenary?" one of the Togorian's companions suggested in a tone that was both mild and carefully neutral.

"So _vile_!" the matriarch hissed; her eyes narrowed dangerously as she pivoted sharply on her heel to face the human male who was leaning calmly against one of the room's rounded walls.

"I didn't realize you felt so strongly about the Sith, Verda," the man crossed his arms over his armored chest and raised a dark eyebrow.

"I feel strongly about an alliance that would rob us of our younglings," Verda's tail bristled behind her like a bottle bush. "Asking us to hand over our younglings to the Sith? How _dare_ he, Walon! The Sith are no better than the Jedi, who steal our younglings in the night like cowards."

"He's not asking for _all_ of the younglings –" Walon started to speak, but the calico-patterned Togorian cut him off mid-sentence with a flash of teeth and a flick of her tail.

"Our clans grow thin, eaten from the inside by the very disease and decay that lays waste to the galaxy beyond our homes," Verda gestured expansively toward nothing and everything. "Our elders are dying of hunger, our warriors are dying of disease before they can become elders, and our younglings seem to go missing faster than we can bring them into the clans!"

Walon tried again, his voice cautious -

"Are you sure that your grief isn't influencing your -"

Verda cut him off, yet again, her fury peaking as she stalked over to stand in front of the Mandalorian bounty hunter and poke him in the chest between the plates of his armor.

"Of course my grief is influencing my opinion!" she jabbed him again for good measure, not seeming to care particularly if her claws were only half-way retracted. "Younglings are the future of our clans. Without our younglings, we are _nothing_. _Nothing_. And with this recent gathering of the clans, I'm beginning to think that's what the Mand'alor wants of us – a culture of _nothing_. He would ally us to the Sith in the name of gaining us strength to combat the disease and famine tearing us apart. But, then he has the _audacity_ to ask us to give up a portion of our younglings to the Empire in _payment_? We are _Mandalorians_ – our younglings _are_ our strength. We don't need to barter strength and protection from kriffing _auretti_! We need to unite our clans under a capable, uncompromising leader who won't _throw away_ our hope of future strength to the highest _shabla_ bidder!"

Verda jerked and snarled, as a slender hand reached out from behind her and touched her on the shoulder. She spun around, claws fully extended, and only just barely stopped herself from raking her paw across the startled face that hovered next to her. Green eyes opened wide and the hand that had rested on Verda's shoulder moved swiftly to intercept the Togorian's wrist. Both females froze, startled by the ferocity of Verda's reaction.

"Ni'ka," Verda blinked and some of the anger melted away from her furry features.

The Togorian gathered herself together and eased the tension in her arm. The pink-skinned female who had grabbed hold of Verda's arm let go of it and the two females stepped away from each other and from Walon. A moment of silence hung awkwardly among the three, before Verda cleared her throat and reached up with a paw to rub her temples.

"I would apologize for losing my temper, except that I think it is about time _someone_ did," she growled, her voice a little deeper than before, her tone a little more controlled. "I am outraged by what we were all asked to do today and I believe that I am justified in my anger. We are losing ground all over the galaxy and I do not believe that allying ourselves to the Sith will help us regain what we've lost."

"Would you be willing to agree to an allegiance if it didn't involve such high stakes?" Walon queried hesitantly, no doubt cautious about provoking the temperamental Togorian again.

"I am not sure _what_ I would agree to right now," Verda shook her head and her shoulders finally slumped in something like defeat; Ni'ka reached out to touch her again and this time, the Togorian accepted the gesture of concern. "But, I know what I would _not_ agree to and that is what the Mand'alor asks of us."

Ni'ka began to make a series of gestures and both Verda and Walon kept their peace as they watched the dark-haired woman's nimble hands weave and wave through the air in front of them. After a moment, she stopped and glanced expectantly from one to the other, as if waiting for a similar response.

"Yes, Ni'ka," Verda began to gesture herself, to accompany her own throaty voice; the Togorian turned her head just slightly, so that her companion could see her speaking clearly.

A thoughtful expression crossed Verda's face and her ears flattened slightly against her skull. Her whiskers didn't flatten, though, so the gesture was one of concern and determination, instead of anger.

"I _would_ defy the Mand'alor in this matter," if Verda saw the surprise flash openly across Ni'ka's face, the Togorian didn't show it. "I do not think that I would support an allegiance with any _auretti_ right now. I most especially don't support an alliance that asks us to give up what precious few of our younglings we've been able to keep safe from the _jetti_."

Silence – loud and profound – stretched between the three adults. Verda tossed her proud mane uncertainly, her golden eyes flickering from the face in front of her, to the face next to her. She knew that they both knew how much her words had cost her – like most Togorians, Verda was fiercely loyal, almost to a fault. If she refused to obey the most important tenant of the _Resol'nare_...if she refused to support the Mand'alor and rally to his cause...then it was because she had found a cause of her own that she believed in far more strongly. To utter such words of defiance, meant that she was not to be easily swayed.

Ni'ka's fine-boned face looked flushed in the flickering firelight, but no more so than normal; the young Mandalorian female was half-human and half-Zeltron, a strange mix for a Mandalorian, but a fierce fighter despite her deceivingly slender build. Verda remembered when she had first found Ni'ka – she had been barely more than a child, all awkward limbs and tear-streaked eyes. Ni'ka's parents had been refugees, until the Sith had killed them. How the youngling had escaped the grasp of slavers, Verda had never really been able to find out; she had never asked about those dark days before she found Ni'ka, and Ni'ka had never told her.

Ni'ka had been the first of Verda's clan, which the fierce-hearted Togorian had rebuilt from the ashes of the wars between the Republic and the Empire. Since then, Verda had adopted more into the alarmingly thin ranks of Clan Par'jain – mostly younglings she had discovered over the years, some slaves, most orphans who had been left disposesed, credit-less, and drifting aimlessly in whatever refugee colony they could find.

It wasn't hard for a Mandalorian to find younglings worthy of adoption in the clans. Half of the galaxy seemed to be orphaned, it seemed. The other half, enslaved. War, disease, and famine had nearly wiped several major planets clean of sentient life – some of those planets were even Mandalorian, like Ordo.

"_Our ranks should be swelling with new, strong blood! We should be scouring the galaxy for warriors to raise – if there was a time or place to triumph in our own strength, it would be now! We have always found strong and plentiful _beskar_ in the wastes left behind the Republic and the Sith. Why aren't we forging new blades to fight?"_

Her words had been eloquent, almost senatorial. They had been passionate, but they had fallen on a seemingly indifferent Mand'alor. Every being gathered knew that Verda hadn't been speaking of literal swords and iron, but of younglings – new futures to graft into the clans and to shape into a new strength that could wax proudly while the rest of the galaxy waned.

But, it was pointed out by the Bralor _alor_ that only the Republic waned. The Sith were strong, powerful –_ too _strong and powerful, even in the minds of the galaxy's fiercest warriors.

"_Our clans _have_ been adopting younglings, training them, shaping them into warriors. But, the Republic _jetti_ prey on our strength. They rob it as fast as we can forge our new blades. If we were to strengthen ourselves, the Sith would notice. And we would have to fight the Empire. We are not strong enough for that."_

"_Not yet_," Clan Ordo had interjected quietly – there was only a single family left of that clan, once one of the mightiest of them all.

Verda hoped, perhaps, that she had an unspoken ally in Clan Ordo, but she couldn't share her sedition just yet. Not while they were still on Mandalorian soil, not while they were both so close to the Mand'alor and the other, larger clans.

Verda had just snarled at Bralor's cowardly acquiescence; words at that moment could not convey her rage and, indeed, it had not been the place for it. She had held in her fury, until she had found herself back in the relative safety of her _vheh'yaim_, until she was alone with what was left of her clan and her clan's allies – a grim total of three souls.

In addition to Ni'ka, there was the Twi'lek youngling, Ka'rta, who was so exhausted that she had slept through the entirety of her _buir'_s outrage. Verda glanced over across the small, rounded room, to where her last youngling lay, a little bundle of blankets topped by lekku of the palest blue Verda had ever seen on a Twi'lek. Ka'rta had been rescued as an infant, right in the middle of a Sith raid. The Togorian had simply managed to be at the right place, at the right time, and had seen Ka'rta's older brother fiercely protecting his barely three-month-old sister. Dral had barely been big enough to pick up a blaster, but he had managed to find one – probably taken from his dead father's grasp.

The image was one that Verda would never be able to forget – little Dral, trembling, with a too-big blaster shaking in his tiny hands. He had been backed up against the wall of his Ryloth home, too terrified to make a sound, but brave enough to stand his ground.

She had seen a warrior in him that day. Verda snatched him out of Imperial grasp – him and Ka'rta both. That had been nearly ten years before; she only had Ka'rta, now, her jealously guarded treasure. Dral had passed his _verd'goten_, had joined the ranks of the Mando'ad, had claimed his place as a warrior three years later at sixteen years of age...

And had disappeared on Dxun. No trace, no trail to follow. The only evidence that Verda had been able to find of his fate, pointed to _jetti_ interference.

She had been angry, bitter, vengeful, ever since.

"So, if we're to defy the Mand'alor, Ver'_buir, _what would you then suggest for our next course of action?" Walon's voice was low, but his words startled the fiery Togorian completely out of her reverie.

She blinked, her pupils dilating slightly as she focused thoughtfully on the unusually somber bounty hunter. Walon had been quiet for most of their visit to Mandalore; this was the only time, beyond the eyes and ears of the other clans, that the dark-featured man had spoken. Verda had found his silence curious; ordinarily, Walon was a jocular – if abrupt – personality, full of good humor and often talkative. He was a clan of one, so far as Verda knew, and had found his way to Togoria nearly ten years earlier.

Verda had adopted him as an ally of sorts and she had never regretted the choice – he was a loyal friend and resourceful on a level that testified to the many years he had spent drifting across the length and breadth of the galaxy. In a moment like this, one which could spell a grave fate for her and her family, the Togorian was grateful to have such an ally at her side.

"I suggest we break down the _vheh'yaim_ tonight and return to Togoria," Verda curled her tail thoughtfully; she reached up and pushed some of the longer fur between her ears back from in front of her eyes were it had fallen.

"A rather passive-aggressive move for you, Ver'_buir_," Walon murmured; his voice was low, his eyes thoughtful.

"I do not know what else to do. Openly defying the Mand'alor in his own territory would be disastrous," Verda glanced – unbidden – over toward Ka'rta and her point was eloquently made in the momentary silence that followed.

Ni'ka's hands moved swiftly and Verda nodded grimly in agreement.

"An excellent point, Ni'ka," the Togorian's ears black-and-tan ears flattened briefly against her skull. "Clan Kusp is not known for its mercy; if defied, it I would not put it past the Mand'alor to hunt us down."

"You know he will," Walon interjected grimly.

"I know," Verda began to move toward Ka'rta, to wake the youngling; the matriarch's mind was made up. "But, with communications destroyed in all but the Core Planets, he'll have a harder time tracking us down."

"It won't be difficult," Walon frowned slightly in confusion. "Everyone knows Clan Par'jain calls Togoria home."

"Then we won't go to Togoria," Verda crouched down next to her Twi'lek daughter and lifted her head with a toothy smile that was anything but humorous.

Both Walon and Ni'ka lifted their eyebrows in quiet surprise, but the obvious question remained unspoken. Verda answered it, anyway.

"I found it curious that Clan Kelborn sent only one of their number here to Mandalore. It is no secret that there is little love lost between Clan Kusp and Clan Kelborn – I have been a lifelong friend of the one man who has openly defied the Mand'alor – and the one man in all the Clans who has ever been strong enough to fight Mand'alor and _live_."

Ni'ka gasped and even Walon looked completely taken back. The bounty hunter blinked rapidly several times and only after a moment or two of stunned silence, did he finally manage to form coherent words.

"You mean...?" he paused, his voice trailing off uncertainly; Verda's smile grew feral and her eyes flashed yet again in the flickering firelight.

"Beskar'ga Kelborn? Yes," the Togorian's face flashed triumphantly in the dim _vheh'yaim_ and she reached out with a sheathed paw to gently shake young Ka'rta.

"I thought he was _dead_," Walon shook his head in disbelief.

"A convenient lie, perpetuated by Beskar'ga and his clan, to keep Mand'alor from pursuing his own vendetta," Verda practically growled, her disapproval of the matter evident in her voice. "However, if there is any sentient in this galaxy who knows how to sow a rebellion from the shadows, it would be Beskar'ga."

"So, it's rebellion then, Ver'_buir_?" Walon's voice was quietly; Ka'rta stirred sleepily beneath Verda's gentle paw.

"It has to be," Verda kept her face turned away from the bounty hunter, determined to hide her own conflicted emotions – her voice was steady, but her heart thudded anxiously at the thought of what she was uttering. "One does not simply disagree with Mand'alor and get away with it. He will hunt us down, he will send the other Clans to hunt us down. We either run, or fight."

"If he allies with the Sith..." Walon didn't finish his thought and the reality of his words hung heavy in the quiet air.

"If he allies with the Sith and we with him, then we are doomed as it is," Verda shook her head, unwilling to be dissuaded by the fear that nipped suddenly at her heart.

Ka'rta finally stirred and opened her dark brown eyes. The youngling blinked sleepily, confused; Verda reached out again to help the Twi'lek sit up.

"Are we going somewhere, _Buir_?" Ka'rta mumbled as she rubbed her sleepy eyes.

"Yes," Verda stood up and twitched her whiskers in approval when she saw Ni'ka quietly move across the room to pull several thick canvas bags used to store armor out of a large duraplast floor locker.

"Home?" Ka'rta had noticed Ni'ka's activity and perked up; traveling was hard on the youngling, who was not as robust or sound of health as most other Mandalorian children.

"No," Verda lifted her chin proudly and glanced across the room to gauge Walon's reaction.

The "final resting place" of the infamous Beskar'ga Kelborn had been a late-night-around-the-campfire argument of Mandalorians across the galaxy for nearly ten years. Assumed dead, most never gave the debates much thought; it was a means for a little gossip, a little friendly disagreement, but not something to be taken seriously. There were rumors, though, of where Beskar'ga's "body" may have ended up – Verda fairly purred as she uttered the one name she knew would give Walon fits – they had argued this before between themselves and he had never agreed with her singular instance.

"Anobis, _ad'ika_. We have an old friend to meet on Anobis."

* * *

**A/N:** _Many warm thanks and special hugs to everyone who's read and reviewed this: _

_**LongLiveTheClones**, **laloga**, **SerendipityAEY**, **Jade-Max**, **Verda Buir**, **Brandi** and **Brian. **You guys rock! Thanks for all of the support and for the encouragement - even just a 'hey, have you posted a new chapter yet?' is enough to keep this thing going. :)_

_Next week's instalment will switch to another POV, just FYI. I'll be alternating the story-lines between Kar, Verda, and our as-yet-unmet-retired-Trooper, just to keep things a little different each chapter. It's one way to keep you on your toes, Dear Reader, and to keep me from getting bored. LOL As much as I've enjoyed writing from a limited third person view in **A Thousand Suns**, it's nice to experiment with a new story-telling style...  
_

_Thanks, once again, for the great support so far. Looks like this is off to a great start and I have some great folks to thank for that. Don't ever think that your support doesn't keep this writing writing!  
_

_Love it? Like it? Hate it? Lemme know...!  
_


	3. The Devil's Paintbrush Road3

"_Single I was born / And single I will die / I'll marry myself to the whole wide world / And never make her cry."_

"**The Devil's Paintbrush Road"**

**The Wailin' Jennys**

* * *

"Lieutenant Commander P'ietan?" a crisply-uniformed Republic officer was forced to lift his hand in order to peer past the blinding Jomark sunset.

The man who was being so addressed didn't even bother to look up from where he was sitting cross-legged in the bottom of his boat, mending a broken fishing net. Shoulders shrugged in casual indifference; the left arm was a dull metallic gray from the shoulder down and flashed a rusty red in the fading sunlight. Such blatant display of obvious cybernetics seemed to catch the Republic officer by surprise, but he cleared his throat and only shifted slightly in his well-polished boots.

"There's no one here by that name," was the abrupt response; the man kept his attention firmly on the net spread across his lap and the only being in the boat that paid the strangers any mind was a scruffy, blue-eyed hunting hound of indiscriminate variety that was nearly as large as the boat itself.

"Valinar, I _truly_ don't have time for this," a second officer stepped out from behind the first; older than the other, this officer had the bearing to go with the commander's piping on his sleeves.

The man below them simply turned his head and glanced up at them from over his cybernetic shoulder. A single green eye calmly processed the pair peering down at him; where there should have been another eye was a black patch, a grim place marker for where he could have once opted for a cybernetic implant.

"The folks around here just call me 'Val'," his head turned back to consider his net and his voice remained completely even, almost emotionless in tone. "I'd prefer to stay that way, if you don't mind."

"I'm afraid –" the commander began, but Val briskly cut him off.

"_I'm_ afraid I'll have to ask you gentlemen to leave," he remained seated, but the muscles in his back tensed in silent threat. "You're not going to find what you're looking for, here."

"You may consider it worth your while to hear us _out_," the commander insisted, completely unperturbed by the subtle warning.

"There's only one reason you'd be here – in uniform, no less," the fisherman tossed his net down and stood up; the small boat underneath his feet rocked slightly in rhythm with his motions, but neither Val nor his canine companion seemed alarmed. "If this wasn't such a backwater planet, I'd say you two have just done a fine job of blowing my cover."

Val put his hands on his hips and stared up defiantly at his unwelcome guests. The hound at his feet pulled her ears back and growled slightly, sensing her owner's own obvious displeasure and reacting appropriately. The bare cybernetic arm flashed in the scarlet light of the dying sun; the rest of him was tanned and fairly fit, a silent testimony to how much time Val spent in the newly discovered water world's temperate elements.

The Korun commander held in a sigh of exasperation. Once, he and Val had fought together; once, Val had even been _his_ commanding officer. Almost ten years had lapsed since then and tracking down the former special forces operative had been nearly next to impossible. The commander was in no mood to return to the scattered Fleet unsuccessful, but he knew enough about Val to be cautious. Things could end badly for all concerned, if the animosity started to escalate.

"We need information -"

"Not my job," Val countered curtly.

"And we may need an important asset extracted from a potentially hostile situation -"

"You've got plenty of other resources for that."

"No, we don't."

"Sure you do. I remember training most of them at some point."

"All of them are dead,_ sir._"

There was a half-minute pause and something flickered briefly through Val's one good eye. It was quick, a ghost of emotion, but the commander was observant enough to catch it. He quirked an eyebrow upward in silent response, but remained carefully impassive otherwise.

"You're almost all we have left," the commander continued quietly, his deep voice appropriately somber. "And you're still the _best_."

"I'm also _retired_, Geptun," Val turned his attention toward his mooring line; it was an evasive movement, however, as the line was already soundly secured.

Commander Geptun decided it was time to be blunt. He glanced briefly around, but the dock was deserted; the nearest sentient being was on the opposite side of the narrow inlet and too far away to make out features, much less words. The Korun crouched down, so he was almost level with Val's face; the two officers calmly sized each other up for a moment, before Geptun laid his metaphorical pazaak cards on the table.

"You're the only Mandalorian we have on our side, Valinar. Retired or not, we'd need you to go to Anobis."

"That's a death sentence and you know it," there was no mistaking the anger that flashed through Val's one good eye; Geptun had the good graces to pause a moment. "Why the _haran_ would you need me?"

"Because you have a particular skill set that we need now more than ever."

"And what's that?" the edges of Val's lip curled up in something like a snarl.

"We need you to start a rebellion."

* * *

"You know I'm _dar'manda_, Geptun. What you're asking for is impossible."

Geptun stood with his arms crossed thoughtfully over his broad chest, as he watched Val stalk angrily to and fro in front of him. The three – Geptun, his young lieutenant, and Val – had relocated to the cyborg's home. Val hadn't been especially happy about the prospect of relocating their conversation – much less continuing it – but his small, innocuous cottage was the most secure location he could promise.

Thankfully, the island he had settled on was small and fairly remote. It was primarily a fishing village, the lives of its few sentients tied to the expansive Jomark ocean and its rhythms. There were maybe fifty or so others living on the island; mainly families. Val was one of a handful of solitary individuals and while his face was known by the others around him, he was mostly left to his own devices. The sentients of Jomark were quiet by nature and mostly lacking in any sense of curiosity; Val was an outsider and didn't encourage much in the way of personal relationships. It was also rude, by Jomark customs, to pry into another's personal life without an expressed invitation to do so; it was one of the many reasons Val had chosen the backwater planet for his final place of refuge.

Geptun remembered him as being an aloof sort of individual; stoic, straight-forward, and decidedly introverted. With the exception of his cybernetic implants, Val had an unremarkable appearance, which translated into a rather eerie knack for blending quietly into the background of where ever he was. In fact, the implants were new to Geptun; they were also the reason the former operative had retired so suddenly from his position in Republic intelligence at the peak of his career.

"You were always good at blending in," Geptun countered smoothly.

"Not so much, anymore," Val paused abruptly and gestured toward his face with a decidedly wry expression.

"Well...Mandalorians aren't exactly known for taking off their helmets," Geptun persisted, undaunted.

"Got an answer for everything, don't you?" Val growled and started pacing again. "You were always good at that."

"Learned from the best, sir," Geptun simply inclined his head respectfully toward his one-time commanding officer; as far as the burly Korun was concerned, "Lieutenant Commander P'ietan" was _still_ his superior.

"So, you got me," Val tossed him a sardonic glance as he stalked stiff-legged across the length of the one-room cottage. "What's going on with the Mandalorians that you all needed to track me down?"

"We're not really sure, sir," Geptun chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment before answering; it was a surprisingly difficult question to answer and one that had been perplexing the Republic for nearly a decade. "But, the grandson of Ung Kusp took over as Mand'alor shortly after you left and we've been keeping tabs on him ever since. His grandfather was well known for his brutality and his willingness to ally with the Sith. We think his grandson – Tor – is, quite possibly, worse.

"That doesn't really tell me why you all need me to put my neck on the line."

"Tor Kusp is militant – dangerously so. And ambitious, which is never a good combination. It's only the diseases and chaos sweeping through the galaxy recently that's kept the Mandalorians from becoming a major threat. We have reason to suspect that Kusp is striking an alliance with the Sith, though, which would spell total ruin for the Republic at this point."

Geptun stuck to the facts, his face emotionless. Inwardly, though, he was a seething stew of anxiety – as were most high level Republic officers in recent memory. The times were already being called a 'Dark Age' and the Republic forces lay nearly broken on the fringes of the galaxy. The Sith were the dominant force – well supplied, well trained, and well organized – and an alliance with the galaxy's greatest mercenary force would decimate what was left of the struggling Republic. The intelligence officer told Val as much, after a momentary silence.

"All the Mandalorians lack at this point in time is organization. They've been experiencing considerable losses in their youngling population for the last five years or so and their ranks have been ravaged with disease. An alliance with a stronger force, though, would stabilize them...and I'm pretty sure I don't need to tell you what a stable, organized force of Mandalorians could do."

"They'd wipe out everything in their way," Val finally stopped, right in front of Geptun, and crossed his arms over his chest.

He was still bare-footed and bare-chested from his time out in the fishing boat; his short hair was just long enough to stick up in random places, where he had run a wet hand through it. Several days' worth of beard covered his face and at a glance, Captain Valinar P'ietan, formerly of Clan Cadera and the infamous Cabur'e Squad, looked more like a Corellian nerf herder than a decorated Republic veteran.

Geptun knew better than to be fooled by appearances.

"We've had an undercover operative in one of the larger clans for some time now – almost fifteen years, to be exact. About ten years ago, he challenged Kusp for the title of Mand'alor, but was unsuccessful in taking it. He's been assumed dead by most since then, but he's been laying low on Anobis and keeping tabs on things for us."

"So why not ask him to start this rebellion?" Val shrugged, almost arrogantly. "I'm still trying to figure out why you _need_ a rebellion started, in the first place."

"If the Mandalorians are fighting each other, then they can't fight us," Geptun replied calmly; he knew Val was smarter than that, but played along with the questions. "Our agent can't really do much, though, since Kusp would kill him if he knew he was alive. He's quite proficient at gathering information, though – almost better than having a Bothan, actually. But, with him being undercover the way he is, we can't really ask him to do what needs to be done."

"Start a rebellion?" Val raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Yes."

"And you think I can do it?"

"We _know_ you can do it," Geptun shook his head slightly and stifled back another sigh. "You could go in, undercover, make contact with our agent, find out what you need to know, and then do what it is you do so well."

"And what's that?" Val was _not_ playing easy, but Geptun had expected that.

"You built one of the best military intelligence team in Republic history from the ground up, single handedly. You could organize a strong dissident faction within the Mandalorians just as easily – you know how to read sentients and you know how to get them to do what you want."

"There's something you're not telling me," that one good eye narrowed dangerously.

"You could do what our other agent couldn't – you could challenge Kusp and take his place as leader."

"Absolutely not."

Geptun had almost expected anger, but all he got was a stony defiance. The intelligence officer felt like smacking his face into his palm – he had hoped, _prayed_ actually, that it wouldn't come down to this. Lieutenant Commander P'ietan could be as stubborn as a bantha and twice as difficult.

"You have an edge that our other operative has never had. You _are_ Mandalorian – born and raised," Geptun tried a slightly different approach, but Val cut him off.

"I _was_. I sort of lost that distinction when I decided to throw my lot in with the Republic."

"Dammit, Val," Geptun finally lost his cool; the Korun reached up and ran an agitated hand over the top of his perfectly shaved head. "If we had _anyone_ else, we would have found them. But, we don't. You're literally our only hope."

"You're practically asking me to sign my own death warrant," Val growled.

There was a long, heavy pause, before the lieutenant beside Geptun spoke up for the first time since addressing Valinar at the dock.

"I guess that means you shouldn't get caught, sir."

To the young man's credit, he didn't sputter or squirm when Val turned the full force of his attention toward him. The lieutenant stood with his back perfectly straight; only his hands belied his nervousness, as they clenched tightly at his side.

Val started to laugh and the younger officer jerked roughly in surprise.

And that's when Geptun knew they had their man.

* * *

Val rarely drank, but he figured the evening's events called for a special exception. He leaned his bare back against the rough stone exterior of his home and nursed a glass tumbler of amber _tihaar_. The warmth from the day still lingered in the stones and seeped slowly into his skin until his muscles finally relaxed. The former Republic spy pulled one knee up toward his chest and draped his cybernetic arm across it. The moon peeked through the broad fronds of the trees that buffered the cottage and the sounds of the Jomark tide washed the night in tones of tranquility.

He had a lot to think about; thankfully, Geptun knew him well enough to leave him to it, with a secure comlink left behind to contact the Fleet once he had come to his own decision. Geptun actually knew Val rather well – or, as well as anyone could know the former Mandalorian. Val pushed a sigh out through his teeth and ran a hand through his hair as he squinted out toward the shoreline.

The appearance of Geptun – of all of the intelligence officers in the Republic Fleet – had been a calculated move. It had been a _smart_ move, one that Val rather suspected Geptun had insisted on himself. He glanced down at his metal hand and thoughtfully flexed his fingers.

Geptun had been the one to drag him out of the burning wreck that had nearly claimed his life. Val owed the Korun a debt of gratitude – and Geptun knew it. Coming to ask the former spy to take up his old line of work after a ten year hiatus had just as much to do with settling an old debt, as it did with helping out the Republic in what was arguably one of her darkest hours.

The Korun also had to know that he was asking for a _lot_. This was different than anything Val had ever done before – in the past, he had always worked with a team. He had experience with going undercover, but it was for quick work – get in, claim objective, get out. What he was being asked to do was none of the above. He was being asked to assume a role, one that had to be played 24/7, without error. He was being asked to work by himself, with the exception of one other operative – a Jedi Watchman by the name of Beskar'ga. A sentient that Val had never met.

"He's got to be good, I suppose," Val glanced over and ruffled the ears of his quietly panting companion; living alone for so many years had put him in the habit of talking to his dog or to himself, if only to hear his own voice. "If he's been hiding out for nearly ten years, with Kusp's bounty on his head. Kinda' surprised I never heard of him, though. Guess that's the Jedi for ya', huh, Akiva?"

The only forthcoming response was a wagging tail and lolling tongue. Val was used to the silence, however, and continued to scratch his hound behind the ears and mull over what he'd been told.

Val knew he should refuse – he had every right to do so. He had lost an eye, an arm, and a leg to the service of the Republic. Much of him had been rebuilt, thanks to the extensiveness of his injuries; in fact, Geptun had observed that Val hadn't appeared to age a day since last they'd met. Val had bitterly replied that since he'd had several organs replaced in addition to his limbs, that he'd become more machine than man. He'd found an unfortunately lingering youth – and he hated it.

In many ways, Val felt like he'd given the Republic entirely too much of himself. He'd lost parts of his body; he'd lost the ability to age properly. He'd also lost his clan and the respect of his people. He didn't really hold out much hope any more for those things that normal men craved – hearth, home, family. It was just him, his dog, and his fishing boat.

He'd been restless, though, for the last ten years. Edgy, twitchy; he only stayed in Jomark because it was one of the best places in the galaxy to remain anonymous. The planet had only been recently discovered and its rural rhythms of nautical life didn't attract much interest from the rest of the galaxy. The water world didn't seem to possess any major export, except maybe fish, which certainly didn't set it apart from Manaan or Mon Calamari.

He had grown up on the shores of Mandalore, so it had been easy to slip into the role of a village fisherman. There had been some initial interest in his obvious cybernetics, but it was considered almost unforgivably rude to pry according to Jomark culture, so he'd been left politely to himself. Val had dedicated himself to blending into his environment and had felt completely stifled ever since.

He had loved his job with the Fleet – had loved the challenge of it all. He was Mandalorian – a warrior. Cast out, perhaps, but still a warrior. Fishing, while peaceful, was not the way he had been planning to live out the rest of his unfortunately extended life.

After recovering from his injuries, he had petitioned his commanding officers to let him return to the field – to continue leading Cabur'e Squad and hunting down the enemy. He'd been very earnestly offered a desk job, at which point, he'd put in his resignation. He'd spent the last ten years telling himself that it was better to spend his days fishing, than settling behind a Fleet desk as a "training advisor".

That old sense of pride had surged to the fore, when he'd heard his old rank and name, when he'd turned to see Geptun staring down at him. In retrospect, Val wasn't sure what had made him more angry – the fact that it was Geptun come to so obviously collect on an old debt, the fact that they'd managed to track him down after all, or the fact that they both just stood there representing everything that he missed.

But, it was the young lieutenant's words that had caught Val's pride off guard: "_I guess that means you shouldn't get caught, sir_."

Challenge. Danger. If there was one thing Val couldn't resist, it was being told that the odds were stacked against his favor.

He was being asked to do the impossible – pick up his childhood identity as a Mandalorian. Sniff out seeds of rebellion against the current Mand'alor, which Beskar'ga had relayed to Geptun's own team as being of imminent concern for several surprisingly major clans. Organize a force against Tor Kusp, challenge his position as Mand'alor...

"I'm not doing _that,_ though," Val turned his head and addressed Akiva with considerable conviction. "I'll _find_ them a Mand'alor – help them make one. But, if there's one sure way to blow my cover, it's to challenge Kusp directly."

That was really the only flaw in the plan that Geptun had laid out to Val in the quiet security of his seaside sanctuary. Val was _dar'manda_ – a Mandalorian who had turned his back on the _Resol'nare_, had chosen to side with the Republic against the express wishes of his Mand'alor, and had been shunned from his clan as a result.

If he was caught...

Well, there it was. The one challenge he just couldn't resist.

"Don't get caught," he repeated into the still night air; he lifted his _tihaar_ up to his mouth and chuckled to himself before taking another sip.

The odds were sorely stacked up against his favor – in fact, the odds were stacked up against the Republic as a whole. The challenge of it all piqued Val's interest and, as he sat against the cooling stones of his home and thought things over, it was exactly enough to turn the tides of his pride.

He wouldn't do it for the Republic – not in so many words, at least. He'd do it because an old friend had called in a favor. He would do it, because Geptun was right -

He _was_ the Republic's only hope.

* * *

**A/N:** _And now...the plot is officially set! I'm sort of winging this as I go along, but thankfully, I've got some great sounding boards and some awesome support. Hope you all liked this latest chapter. ;-)_

_Many thanks and hugs to **LongLiveTheClones**, **laloga**, **Verda Buir**, **Brandi** and **Rebecca **for reading and reviewing. And to **Brian**, who has graciously allowed me to borrow Valinar, filled me in on his back story, and let me make some tweaks of my own._

_Love it? Like it? Hate it? Lemme know...!_


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